Elixir (10 page)

I walked to the next cage and was greeted by another dog, desperate for my attention. He whimpered and wagged his tail. He had food in one bowl and water in a second. At least he had water. However, the cage was just as stained and smelly and fly-infested. The next pen was empty and— No, it wasn't. There was a small dog lying at the very back. It wasn't moving. Was it … was it …? I saw its chest rise and then fall. It was breathing, so it had to be alive.

Then I noticed its stomach. Some of the fur had been shaved off, leaving a big pink patch. In the middle of the shaved spot was a long, red, raw-looking incision. It was held together with black thread and was oozing a sort of liquid and flies were crawling all over it!
I felt a rush of revulsion. I got light-headed and for a split second I thought I was going to faint. I staggered backward and my feet stuck to the floor. I looked down. I was standing in a yellow stain. I felt even woozier and was afraid I was going to vomit. The smell and the heat and the flies all combined in my mind and in my stomach. I had to leave. I had to. I stumbled forward and ran for the door. I flung it open and practically jumped out and ran down the hall. I had to get to the washroom before I threw up.

I reached the stairwell and stumbled down the first few steps. Then I turned back around, remembering that I'd left my sandals on the landing. I couldn't go back for them—not now, at least. I'd have to get them later. I raced down the stairs, holding the railing with one hand, the other hand over my mouth, trying to block out the stench that seemed to be following along with me.

“Ruthie, it's good to see you!”

It was Dr. Banting climbing up the stairs. I just nodded and rushed past, hoping to hold my stomach in check long enough not to embarrass myself in front of him.

I TOOK ANOTHER SIP
 of water, rinsed it around in my mouth, and spat it into the sink. I'd rinsed my mouth out a dozen times but I still couldn't get rid of the taste of vomit. At least I'd made it to the washroom before I'd erupted. That way I hadn't had to clean it up. Or worse
yet, have my mother clean it up and then have to explain to her what had happened.

I took a step and almost tumbled over. My feet were wet and slippery on the floor. I'd washed them. With soap. Twice. They looked okay now. All I had to do was go back upstairs and retrieve my sandals. I didn't know if I could do that right now.

“Hello … are you in there?”

I looked around. Who was it and who were they calling?

“Ruthie, are you in there?” It was Dr. Banting.

“I'm here,” I called out.

“Are you all right?” he asked through the closed door. “I'm fine.”

“I have something of yours,” he said.

What could he possibly have? I splashed some water on my face and walked toward the door. I pulled it open. Dr. Banting was standing there holding my sandals.

“I thought you might need these,” he said as he handed them to me.

“Thank you,” I said. “It's so hot that sometimes I don't wear them.”

“It certainly is hot. Especially in the kennel.”

My mouth dropped open and I suddenly felt as though I might get sick again. What should I say? I could lie, and he really wouldn't know for sure. It wasn't like he'd seen me in there or anything. I couldn't meet his eyes.

“You left the door open. I closed it,” Dr. Banting said, without even needing me to answer.

I'd forgotten all about the door in my mad dash for the washroom.

“When you rushed by me on the stairs I knew you were in distress, and then I saw the kennel door open and I put two and two together. Were you sick to your stomach?”

I nodded.

“Pretty awful in there—in the kennel—isn't it?”

“Awful,” I agreed, my voice a hoarse whisper.

“It's not the sort of place I'd recommend for a young girl. Matter of fact, I don't know anyone who would go in there if they didn't absolutely have to.” He paused and looked down at me. “Why were
you
in there?”

What was I supposed to say to that? Was I supposed to tell him that I was trying to confirm the stories in the anti-vivisection pamphlet? No, I couldn't say that.

“I guess I was just curious,” I said. That wasn't a complete lie. “I hear the dogs barking all the time.”

“It never stops day or night,” he said. “And believe me, I've spent enough time around here late at night to know that first-hand. Twenty dogs can make quite the racket.”

“Are there really twenty dogs in there?”

“I think around twenty. Sometimes fewer and sometimes more. Between the noise and the smell it certainly makes for a very unsettling place. I think it would be best if you didn't go in there again.”

“I don't
ever
want to go in there again,” I said. “Am I in trouble?”

“Trouble? Not from me. Just stay away from now on. It's not the sort of thing a young girl should be exposed to.”

I thought about the line in the pamphlet—
to expose is to oppose
.

“Now, why don't you put your sandals back on and go for a walk outside. Let the fresh air cleanse your nose and your lungs—get rid of that smell—and let your mind forget what you've seen.”

“I guess that would be good,” I said, although I didn't think there was any way I was ever going to forget what I'd witnessed.

“I'd better get back upstairs. I'm glad to see you're feeling better. And remember to join us for tea today, if you're able. Tea and biscuits will perk up your spirits the way the walk should clear your head.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DR. BANTING WASN
'
T QUITE RIGHT
: the walk did help settle my stomach, but my head was still filled with images of the kennel. Maybe he was right about the cup of tea, though. It was only twenty after one—a full forty minutes before tea time—but I hoped that if I showed up early I might be able to have a biscuit to tide me over.

As I climbed the stairs, I started to think about the kennel again … to think about that one dog with the oozing, stitched-up wound. I wondered if I'd ever get that picture to go away.

There was a time when all I thought about was my father's death. I would imagine how it happened, what he was thinking, how he was feeling. I'd wonder if he was in pain, or if he was thinking about me or my mother when he … when he … died. I thought I'd never be able to think of anything else. Now there were days when it didn't even cross my mind. That suddenly made me feel guilty.

The first faint strains of the dogs' barking echoed down the stairs. The sound grew louder with each step I climbed. Now it was different, though. It wasn't just dogs barking. It felt as if they were calling out to me, begging me to pet them, or fill up an overturned water bowl, or take them away.

I walked along the corridor. Part of me wondered if I even had the strength to go past that door again to get to the lab. I fixed my gaze on the floor so I wouldn't have to see it. I wasn't going to look up until—What was that? It was voices, men's voices. They seemed to be coming from around the corner, from the direction of Dr. Banting's lab. I stopped dead in my tracks. The voices came again, louder, more angry. It was two men yelling! Who could it be and why were they arguing, and—I recognized one of the voices. It was Dr. Banting. But who could the second voice belong to? It was probably that terrible professor. What if I was right? What if he really was one of those vivisectionists, and he'd found out that I'd been in the kennel? Maybe they were arguing about me! My stomach tightened.

Maybe I needed to get away, go and hide. That would be the best thing to do. Or at least the easiest. I couldn't just do that, though. What if Dr. Banting needed help? I could at least run and get Mr. Mercer. I had to see.

I took a deep breath. The increasingly loud voices, the dogs barking, the smell of urine, the heat—all of it swirled around me. I put my head down and walked
swiftly toward the lab, past the closed door of the kennel. Turning the corner, I saw that the lab door was partially open. I stopped. The two men were still screaming at each other. Maybe I should go away. How could I really help? I stood there, frozen, unable to go any farther and unable to flee.

“Do you realize what you've done?” It was Dr. Banting's voice.

“It isn't just my fault!”

“That's three whole weeks of research down the drain!” yelled Dr. Banting. “Three weeks lost because you didn't sanitize the equipment correctly!”

“I didn't do it on purpose. You could have checked the equipment yourself. I'm your assistant, not your manservant!”

Assistant … it wasn't the professor … it was Mr. Best! It was Dr. Banting and Mr. Best fighting! Slowly, tentatively, I edged closer and peeked around the door. The two men were at the far end of the lab, standing toe to toe.

“All our work, all our calculations, everything is corrupt and faulted!” Dr. Banting shouted. “It's all worthless!” He pounded his fist against the counter and a tray of beakers crashed to the floor with the terrible sound of smashing glass.

“There's no need for you to throw a temper tantrum!” Mr. Best bellowed back.

“Maybe instead of a temper tantrum I should throw a few fists!”

“Maybe you should try!” Mr. Best replied. He stepped forward so that now they were standing with their noses almost touching, fists clenched.

“Stop!” I yelled. “Stop it!”

Both men jumped slightly and turned to face me, with furious and startled expressions. I turned and ran away. They called after me, but I didn't stop or look back.

“
HELLO RUTHIE
.”

I looked up from my book. Dr. Banting stood over me as I sat under the elm tree.

“Mr. Mercer told me you were out here,” he said. “I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me for what?”

“You came along at just the right time. If you hadn't been there, heated words might have become heated actions, actions that Charlie and I both would have regretted. Seeing you at the door, looking so shocked and scared, made us realize how foolish and childish we had become.”

“What happened?” I asked.

Dr. Banting sat down beside me with a sigh. “There was a problem. One that compromised our research. The equipment we're using is old and needs to be taken apart and sterilized quite often. This didn't happen, so there were residual amounts of different things, including trace amounts of glucose—sugar. Because of that many of our results weren't accurate.”

“And it is Mr. Best's job to sterilize the equipment?” I asked.

“It's his job to sterilize it, but it's up to me to instruct him to do so. We both bear some responsibility.”

“But it sounded like you were blaming him.”

“I was angry at
both
of us, but I was taking it out on him. I guess I should have been yelling at myself too.” He paused. “I've apologized to Charlie and he's apologized to me. Our work is far too important to allow anything to get in the way. We're actually making progress.”

“You are?”

He smiled. “It's still early, and as I said, some of our results weren't valid, but some of the findings are very encouraging. Who knows?” he said, and shrugged his shoulders. “I just hope we haven't lost our opportunity.”

“But if you know what you did wrong, can't you just do it right from now on?”

“We won't make that mistake again, but we may simply run out of time. We have the lab only until the end of the summer.” He smiled again, a bit sadly.

“But that's still five weeks away. Isn't that long enough?”

“Five weeks isn't a long time for a miracle. Besides that, we need additional funds to purchase more laboratory subjects.”

“Subjects? What do you mean by subjects?”

“Dogs. Charlie has just gone out to buy another.”

I gasped. “You mean those dogs in the kennel belong to you?”

“Not all of them. There are other scientists who have test subjects in the kennel, but eleven of them are part of our research. I'm afraid there have been more fatalities than I expected. I lost two dogs in the beginning because of my surgical techniques. Dogs and people have similar organs but a slightly different arrangement. I've learned from those first mistakes.”

I felt as though I'd been kicked in the stomach. “You operated on the dogs?” I questioned, my voice hardly above a whisper.

“It's certainly not a part of the work I enjoy, but there's no way to attempt to find a treatment for diabetes without first creating that condition in the test subjects,” he explained.

“But what happens to the dogs after you operate?”

Dr. Banting put his hand gently on my shoulder. “Ruthie, I know you might find this difficult to understand, but the dogs are destined to die.”

My mouth hung open and I couldn't find the words, but he must have understood what I was thinking from my expression.

“I know it sounds cruel. Sometimes it
feels
cruel. But we have to make hard decisions, do things that aren't necessarily pleasant, to try to save human lives. Do you understand?”

I was too numb to say anything.

“Ruthie, are you all right?” Dr. Banting asked. “You're terribly pale … perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned any of this … are you feeling nauseated again?”

I staggered to my feet. “I have to go,” I stammered. I rushed off, leaving Dr. Banting sitting under the tree.

“
SO, ARE YOU GOING
to tell me what's bothering you?” my mother asked, rinsing her mop in the pail of grey, soapy water.

“What makes you think something's bothering me?”

She let out a deep sigh and leaned the mop against the wall. “Ruth, I'm your mother. I know you better than you know yourself, and I can always tell when something's wrong. And not only do I know something's wrong now, I know you want to talk to me about it.”